


A Little More Room To Live

by morganya



Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-22
Updated: 2009-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-20 07:03:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/morganya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High School AU. Travis is used to not fitting in. It doesn't mean he likes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little More Room To Live

**Author's Note:**

> Based off a prompt in bandom_hc. It may have been my prompt, nobody can prove anything.

Moving wasn't Travis' idea. He was all set to stay in Geneva, get through the next couple years of school and figure out what he was doing. Except his dad got a job in some town that Travis had never heard of, and it was like he just decided to bring Travis along for the hell of it.

Travis tried every tactic he could to get out of going; all his threats and shouting and pleading didn't do any good. It all boiled down to either go with his dad and his stepmother to some bullshit place where he didn't know anyone, or stay in Geneva with his mom. His mom had made it clear that she wouldn't be happy with him staying.

He made one last desperate attempt to get out of this bullshit by saying that he'd go stay with Matt, but his dad pointed out that Matt's family had enough to deal with already, which Travis couldn't exactly deny. He was stuck, and he was pissed.

"You can hide in my closet or something," Matt told him while he was doing last minute packing. "My mom never checks there."

"Pops would find me in five minutes."

"Yeah, I guess," Matt said glumly.

"This is bullshit," Travis said.

"I'm gonna write my number down again. Text me."

"I've got it in my phone already."

"I'm still writing it down."

"Okay," Travis said. Matt scribbled down his number, which Travis already had three copies of in various places, and passed it over.

"You think you'll get back for fuckin' _Christmas_ at least?" Matt asked. "Or summer vacation? You can't stay there forever."

"Depends on whether Mom wants to have my ass around by then," Travis said. "We'll see."

The move was a nightmare. His dad drove for sixteen hours a day, the U-Haul barely hanging on to the back bumper. Both Travis and his stepmother tried to say as little as possible to each other in the hopes of avoiding an argument. As a matter of fact, the whole car was mostly silent. Travis' stepmother stared out the window or at the map, and Travis guessed she was saying, _It's for the best_ to herself; he'd heard her saying it over and over and over again while this shit was going on. She wasn't happy about moving either, but she was still doing her united front thing. His dad looked at the windshield and didn't ask for directions. Travis stared out the window or at his phone, and he didn't know what the fuck was going on.

By the time they got to the new place, Travis was so sick of both of them that he was glad to throw his shit into the room that had been designated for him and lie down on the bare mattress (it was two in the morning and he wasn't going to put a bed together now). He listened to his father and stepmother arguing in closed, trying to be quiet voices, free to talk now that he was out of sight. Travis texted Matt in the dark, hoping his spelling was okay, _going to be a long year_.

*****

He started school a couple days late because of the move. He was sort of hoping that he could get out of going to school altogether, that his dad had forgotten to enroll him, but that didn't happen. If Travis heard it once, he heard it a million times, that his dad didn't raise an idiot and he was going to get through school and have the opportunities that his dad never got.

His dad always seemed to forget that school had never taught Travis one goddamn thing.

He got to his first class late through a combination of sleeping through his alarm and getting lost on the way over. When he finally manages to find the classroom (Government starting at eight in the morning, oh great), all the heads swivel to face him when he walks in the door, and all he sees is a sea of white kids.

"Getting off to a good start, Mr. McCoy," the teacher said, and Travis thought, _Well, fuck._

It wasn't like he'd particularly enjoyed school back in Geneva, but he was used to it and it was used to him. He'd stopped worrying about standing out back home and just tried to get along. Now it was gone and he was still the same, too tall and too chubby and not white enough and not black enough and just too _there_.

He crammed himself into a free seat and tried to keep his head down.

*****

Two weeks into the move, his dad had to take a pay cut. From what Travis could work out, it was because business had been bad, everyone had to take a cut, there was nothing anyone could do. It kicked off an argument between his dad and his stepmother that lasted all night and into the morning, and then his dad started looking for a second job.

It went without saying that Travis was going to have to look for something himself. His stepmother was already poring over the want ads over her coffee in the morning, but Travis wasn't about to plonk himself down and ask her for help finding anything.

He dropped off an application at Walmart, which was probably the best bet. On the way back to the house, he passed a tattoo parlor, stuck in between two nondescript storefronts. The lights came on as he passed it, which was the only reason he noticed it in the first place. The sign was small and hard to read.

When Travis turned fifteen, he'd celebrated by lying about his age and getting a spray can tattooed on the inside of his forearm, to remind him of the important things in life. He'd spent hours in the parlor while the guy was working on him, fascinated by the soft buzzing noise of the needles and the crazy portraits on the walls. There was something kind of beautiful about it, turning people into artwork.

He pressed himself up to the window and tried to peer inside, but the windows were tinted or something and there were signs with lists of rules blocking the way. He could see some people moving around inside, but that was it.

Someone yelled, "Hey," from inside and he moved off, heading back to the house and the homework that he didn't want to do. He took out his phone and texted Matt, _i found a tattoo place._

Five minutes later, Matt wrote back, _you get anything done?_

Travis wrote, _didnt get in the door. cockblocked._

Matt wrote, _sucks to be you._

Travis wrote, _tell me about it_.

*****

Sometimes he started the day with the best of intentions, that he was going to pay attention and impress everyone with the depth and breadth of his insight, but what usually happened was that the ADD would kick in and he'd lose the thread of what the teacher was saying entirely, so he wound up doodling on his notebook through classes.

It took like a minute before he realized that his name was being called. He looked up and said, "Yeah."

"Travis, would you care to share your thoughts on what I just said?"

"I would," Travis said, "but, you know, there are ladies present."

The guy in the desk next to his snickered. The teacher said, "You better have some thoughts next time around. Pay attention."

"Right," Travis said. It took five minutes before he was drawing again, trying not to look down at the notebook.

*****

He'd packed his lunch the night before based on ease of refrigerator and cupboard access, and it had seemed okay last night, but now applesauce and Ritz crackers didn't seem that appealing. But the smell of the cafeteria made him gag and he didn't really have the spare cash anyhow, so he took his brown paper bag towards the front steps, figuring he'd eat what he could and toss the rest to the birds.

He was halfway there when he heard someone say, "Hey, what the fuck are you looking at?"

He paused. There was a group of guys who he'd never seen before hanging out by one of the lockers. He started to move on, but one of them said, "Yeah, you, freak show, what are you looking at?"

Sometimes his mouth was a little ways ahead of his brain. Which was why he said, "I don't know. Right now, I think I'm looking at a talking asshole."

"What'd you say to me?"

"I don't like to repeat myself," Travis said. "Haven't you got better things to do? Like, I don't know, fuck your mom?"

That was all they needed. He couldn't put up much of a fight against all of them, and it didn't take long before he was on the floor, trying to keep his hands over his head and not start yelling.

By the time they got bored, his whole body was throbbing. He'd fallen onto his lunch and squished it flat, and he could feel a puddle of applesauce spreading against his jeans. He waited for a minute until he was sure it was safe to get up and dragged himself into the bathroom to inspect the damage.

His right eye was swelling, his mouth and nose were bleeding, and the ache in his arms said that they'd be mottled purple with bruises in an hour or two. He clamped a paper towel over his nose and held it there for a second. He figured the whole thing could have been a lot worse.

He heard the bathroom door swing open and flinched preemptively, because he was so fucked if whoever it was came back to finish the job. Luckily it was just one kid and he responded to Travis' flinch by flinching back. Travis threw the bloody paper towel into the trash. "Knock first," he mumbled.

"Sorry," the kid said, and then, "Dude."

"Yeah, I'm real pretty," Travis said. "It's okay."

"Okay," the kid said doubtfully. Travis started to wash the blood off his face, hoping that would effectively end the conversation. It seemed to work, because the kid went off to the urinal and left him alone. Travis spat into the sink and ran his tongue around his mouth experimentally, seeing if he had any new holes.

The kid came over and started washing his hands, glancing sideways at him. "You sure you're all right?"

"Been worse," Travis said. He suddenly realized that he'd forgotten to pick up his squished lunch. The janitor was going to have a hell of a time later on.

"You're bleeding all over the place," the kid said with a note of alarm.

Travis glanced at the mirror. His nose was gushing blood again. "Aw, fuck." He started to reach for another paper towel, but the kid got there first, handing him a wad. Travis muttered, "Thanks," and put it over his nose.

"You've got to hold your head back," the kid said. "Like –" He frowned and then demonstrated.

"Don't want to swallow any blood."

"Maybe you should go to the nurse or something," the kid said.

"Fuck the nurse. I'm okay." Travis took the towels away from his face, put them back just as a safety measure.

"All – all right," the kid said. "You're…Trevor, right? From English?"

"Travie," Travis said automatically, even though he'd been thinking for a while that he had to get away from that nickname now that he was almost grown. "Travis."

"Travie," the kid said. "I have the desk next to yours, I think. I'm Bill?"

"Hey," Travis said. Bill had hair that looked like a spectacularly drab tropical bird, strands moussed beyond an inch of their lives and sticking out all over. There were tiny, angry-looking zits scattered along his jawline and over his chin. "I don't really pay attention in that class."

"Yeah, I noticed. You draw all the time. Did someone beat you up?"

"No, I did this to _myself_ ," Travis snapped.

"Oh," Bill said. He looked at the faucets. "I guess I should have guessed that."

"You never know," Travis said. "Am I still bleeding?"

"Drop the – the thing," Bill said. Travis lowered the paper towels. "I think you might be okay."

"Good." Travis threw the wad at the trash. "What time's it now?"

"I don't know."

"Guess I should get to class then," Travis said. "Uh, thanks. For the…"

Bill shrugged at him. "It's – it's fine. See you around, I guess," he said, and turned around.

*****

At Walmart, they put him in the stock room, so he spent three afternoons a week opening boxes and counting how many crock-pots were there. It wasn't the worst shitty job he'd ever had; the dishwashing gig he'd had back home had him wanting to puke every single day, so he figured things could be worse. He was meant to be just being trained, but his supervisor had been working for fifteen years and just didn't give a fuck anymore, so Travis was mainly left to his own devices.

He got shit done, even though he wasn't sure how well he did it. Whenever he thought about just wandering out and smoking in the parking lot or tearing open the action figures and fucking around with them, Pops' voice started up in his head, shit about work ethic and trying to get ahead, and the guilt always won out.

The action figures were pretty fucking cool, though.

He spent a lot of time trying to multi-task to keep the ADD at bay. He went through the car seats and digital cameras and bikes and hammocks, scanning them in and putting them in the bins, trying to keep focused and ignore the lonely gnawing feeling at the back of his head. He was going to save his paycheck and use his employee discount on one of the laptops, one of the nice ones. That seemed like a good plan to have.

*****

Travis was halfway to the door when he heard someone say, "Faggot." It wasn't directed at him; it was coming from down the hall, so he poked his head cautiously around the corner to see what was going on.

"Saddle Creek motherfucker," someone was saying. It was one of those kids that Travis never learned the name of. He had the quiet kid from English – Bill – cornered by one of the lockers. Bill was glancing around, looking for nonexistant backup.

"Conor Oberst is a great songwriter," he offered finally, faintly.

"Why do you care about that, queer?"

Bill's face was a mixture of _oh God_ panic and _just get this over with_ martyrdom. Travis ducked back around the corner and made stompy noises with his feet, like he was coming from a long way away.

"Hey, Mr. DiGrazzi," he said loudly, because DiGrazzi was the only teacher he could think of that seemed vaguely threatening. "I need to talk to you about the assignment? Can you come here so I can show you it? I really need help." His voice bounced off the walls.

He heard a clang and then scuffling noises from down the hall. He checked back; Bill was kneeling down and picking his books up. He looked up and met Travis' eyes before Travis could move on. Travis gave him a curt nod, jerking his chin downwards. Bill looked like he was on the verge of saying something, but instead he dropped his eyes and grabbed the last book off the floor, hustling away on coltish legs.

*****

Matt texted him, _this day sucks_.

Travis wrote back, _why?_

_it just does_

_try kicking the couch_

_no couch here_

_what do you thnk chairs are for dumbass?_

*****

Travis only noticed that something was going on when everyone sat up straight around him. The teacher said, "Everyone choose a partner. You're going to pick the scene that best describes Fitzgerald's main theme from the list on the sheet, and present it together. This is due next week, so you'll want to get started right away."

The classroom mumbled and buzzed, chairs scraping on the floor. Travis thought, _shit shit shit shit_ , because he hated group assignments violently and there seemed no way to get out of this. He scanned the classroom and then noticed Bill's hair out of the corner of his eye. He turned around.

Bill looked at him, playing with his pen. "Do – do you want to pair up?" he asked. "Unless you've got someone already?"

"Yeah," Travis said, feeling relieved. "Yeah, that's okay."

"Okay," Bill said. "Good. Uh, I don't really know what I want to do yet." He motioned at the photocopied sheet.

Travis was sort of glad he didn't bring up the whole thing from earlier, because then Travis would have to talk about how Bill had seen him all fucked up, and he didn't want to do that. He ran down the choices on the sheet, silently, and then pointed. "The tea party."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He'd read the book before, one summer when he was thirteen, and he'd gotten obsessed with the scene with Gatsby and Daisy, Gatsby knocking clocks over and Daisy in tears over shirts. "It'll work."

"Okay," Bill said. "I kind of want to get this done as soon as possible – when do you have study hall?"

"Fifth period."

Bill sucked his teeth disapprovingly. "I've got it in third. Maybe – you, y'know, you want to come over to my house after school to work on this?"

Travis looked at him.

"I don't know, maybe at lunch, too. We could do it at lunch."

"No," Travis said. "No, that's okay. I have work after school most days. But Thursdays are all right."

"Okay," Bill said. "I'll write down my address. You know how to get to Sycamore?"

Travis shook his head.

"I'll write my number down too. It shouldn't take too long, I finished the book."

"Okay," Travis said. Bill scribbled something down on a piece of notebook paper and handed it to him. The teacher said, "Okay, that's enough, talk after class," and the chair scraping started up again. Travis put the paper in his pocket.

*****

Bill's house was this big white two-story on the other side of town. It was like something out of a fifties sitcom: garden in the front, big trees in the back yard. The girl who answered the door looked almost exactly like Bill.

"Hey," Travis said. "Your brother in?"

She looked at him and then yelled, "Billy!" over her shoulder before wandering off, leaving the door open. Travis took it as an invitation.

A small brown ball of fuzz dashed into the hall while Travis was knocking the dirt clumps off his sneakers, and before Travis could decide if it was a beagle or some weird terrier mix, its tongue was hanging out happily and it had jumped up on his jeans.

Travis was sentimental about dogs, he couldn't help it, and before he knew what he was doing he was playing with the dog's ears and crooning, "Dog, dog, dog, hello, fuzzy doggie," at it. The dog gurgled blissfully at him.

"Radley, get _down_ ," Bill said, sounding pained. Travis looked up and saw him rounding the corner. "God. Sorry. He's a pest."

Travis decided not to mention that he'd just been baby talking to the dog. "Your house is hard to find," he said.

Bill shrugged. "I thought I wrote everything down okay…you want to just get started? I've got the book upstairs."

"Your place, your rules."

Bill's room was at the end of the hall on the second floor. Travis hadn't really thought about what it was going to look like, except maybe supposing it would look like his old room, with clothes and shit on the floor. There were clothes on the floor, tossed on top of the computer desk and the bed. There were posters of skinny white boys with guitars all over the walls.

"It'll look nicer if we did some fancy shit with it," Travis said.

Bill looked up from his notebook, where he'd been scribbling down ideas. "Like, pictures?"

"Yeah. You got posterboard here? It'll look like a cartoon. Panels."

"Would they accept that?" Bill said doubtfully. "I think everyone else is just standing up and presenting."

"Boring as fuck," Travis said. "This'll be better. Captions and pictures and everything."

Bill frowned and considered. "I could write the captions on the computer."

"Okay," Travis said. "Here, I'm thinking the first one'll look like –" Bill handed him the notebook. Travis made a rough doodle of Gatsby, skinny ankles sticking out of a puffy suit.

"Yeah," Bill said, warming up to it. "Like a movie or something."

"Cartoon."

Bill shrugged. "Hey, you think you can do the talking next week?"

"Why, you get stage fright?"

Bill looked offended. "Please. No. It's just the stutter. You know. They're not gonna understand me."

"Huh?" He'd noticed that Bill hesitated sometimes between words, longer than a natural pause, but he'd figured it was just him being quiet. "You stutter?"

"Well, I –" Bill blinked at him. "Yeah. It's worse when I have to talk in class. You didn't notice?"

He shrugged. "I don't pay attention to much."

"Oh. Oh. Well, okay." Bill drummed his fingers on his knees. "See, I think the main theme is how he idolizes her, he's built her up to be this perfect creature. And he's trying to prove himself to her, because, _Radley_ , go away."

Travis turned around. The dog had somehow made its way into Bill's room and was sniffing at Travis.

"He pushes the door open with his damn _nose_ ," Bill said. "He's worse than my little sisters. Bad dog."

The dog licked Travis' hand. "Be nice," Travis told Bill. "He's just visiting."

"You think he's cute now," Bill said. "That's how he tricks you."

The dog lay down by Travis' side and put its head in his lap. "He likes me."

"I can't get any privacy up here," Bill said. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

Travis scratched the dog's ears and thought about how to answer. He had half-brothers and half-sisters all over, back with his mother or with Pops' other exes, and he hadn't seen any of them for a while. "Yeah," he said finally. "But right now it's just me."

*****

Travis had left his good art supplies back at the house, so he planned to go back over the weekend and put the thing together. The supplies had cost several shitty dishwashing paychecks' worth and he was nervous about bringing them out, but he figured he had it in him to get at least one good grade.

He lay on his stomach on Bill's bed, carefully filling in the panels while Bill typed on his computer. The plan was to print out the captions, cut them up and then tape them to the posterboard, The trouble was that they both tended to get lost in what they were doing and Travis was a little concerned that the images wouldn't match up to the text.

"What about this," Bill said, twisting around. "'Gatsby ignores reality to try to capture an idealized past, to find his perfect girl –"

"Except she's not perfect."

"I guess. But he thinks she is."

"Yeah." Travis frowned down at the posterboard.

"I'll be glad when this is done," Bill said. "I've got about six hours of math to do still. I'm going to be lucky if I pull in any As this year."

"Besides this one," Travis said. "This is an easy A. Hey, look at Daisy." He held up the paper and waved it around.

"She looks like she could be in a video game. I like it."

"That's the point."

Bill typed some more. "You don't have any algebra pointers you want to lend me, do you?"

Travis snorted. "Dude, I'm fuckin' failing every class I have. You don't want to ask me for pointers."

Bill stopped typing. "Ha ha."

"Not a joke."

Bill turned around completely this time. "You're _failing_ everything?"

"I guess so. I haven't checked."

"But you're not _stupid_ ," Bill said, like that was the only possible reason he could come up with.

"I know that," Travis said. "Doesn't mean my grades are any better."

"Well, you have to study, right? Get the homework in?"

Travis shrugged. "I told you, I have trouble paying attention. It all sounds like bullshit after a while."

"You can't just fail everything."

Bill sounded genuinely distressed. Travis shrugged and said, "I can probably pull in a couple Cs by the end of the year."

"But what about your _future_?" Bill said, and Travis burst out laughing. "It's not funny."

"Is too. You sound all fuckin' serious."

"I don't," Bill said, but turned back to the computer.

By Sunday afternoon they had something put together. Travis was putting his paints and markers back in their cases while Bill stowed the posterboard in a safe place. Travis straightened up and was about to say something like, _Hey, it wasn't the worst weekend I've ever had_ , but Bill had this look on his face like he wanted to say something.

"I was thinking," he said. "My stepfather keeps saying that I've got to buckle down, and my mom works late, and Courtney's too young to really understand any of the stuff they give me to do, and I thought –"

"This story's getting real long, Bill."

"You want a study partner? Like, one day a week or something."

"A study partner."

"Yeah. You know. I could use another pair of eyes."

"I'm not much for the studying," Travis said. "You'd be better off getting a tutor."

"Where? Everyone is this fuckin' place is an asshole," Bill said, and his voice came out sharp. "I'm not – you seem smart, and if you could help me I could help you."

"I never asked for help."

"Well, no, but you know what I mean."

What Travis was thinking was that he didn't want to be some white boy's charity project. "I don't think I'm really for real failing everything," he said. "I can get my own work done."

"I'm not going to do your work for you," Bill said. "It's just like — I believe in paying people back."

Travis thought, _Oh yeah. So it is all about you._

"You don't have to," Bill said. "It was just an idea I had."

"Out of the goodness of your heart, right?"

"Not that. Just – it wouldn't take that long. I type fast." He looked sort of like a kicked dog.

Travis thought about this very carefully.

"Can I use your computer?" he said finally.

Bill looked at him. "If you want."

The project was an easy A.

*****

Bill insisted that it was just a studying thing, and it seemed like he was serious. Travis came over once a week and went up to Bill's room and he always found him comfortably ensconced on the bed, surrounded by textbooks and off in his own world somewhere. Conversation was minimal, although sometimes Travis caught him looking like he really _wanted_ to say something.

Travis wasn't sure of how to proceed. He started out kind of trying, goaded on by Pops' voice in his head. He fiddled around with algebra problems and wrote dates in the margins of his History textbook. Except that was a lot less attractive than Bill's shiny gray computer, and before long he was using the study session as a pretext to email Matt and google Bad Brains lyrics. If Bill disapproved he didn't say anything about it.

Travis got the email a couple minutes after he logged in. Matt always typed like he was late for about five different appointments. This time around, he wrote, _dude this is so gross. You need to see it!!_ and then there was a URL that Travis didn't recognize, something that looked like Barnyard Fun or something.

He clicked the link.

"Oh, _damn_ ," Travis said when the pictures started loading.

There was a rustling sound behind him. "What?" Bill said.

"Look what my friend back home sent me," Travis said. "I got no idea where he finds these things."

Bill put his book down and peered over Travis' shoulder. "Oh, dude. Dude."

"This can't be real," Travis said. "You get arrested for that shit."

"Is that a _flamingo_?" Bill said. "Why do they have a flamingo?"

"This is a real fucked up farm right here," Travis said. "Flamingos and shit."

Bill laughed. "They don't look like they're having much fun, I don't think."

"Dude, I feel sorry for the horse most of all. That is a bored-ass looking horse."

"Billy?" someone called outside the door. "You two okay in there?"

Bill immediately froze. "Yeah, Mom," he said over his shoulder. "Travie just told me a joke." He fixed Travis with a _please don't rat me out_ look.

Bill's mother was tall and pretty and very proper. She'd let Travis in a couple times, smiling politely with tired eyes, and he'd thought she looked like someone with too little time and too many kids. Travis said to the door, "I'm being really funny, ma'am."

There was a long enough pause that Travis knew she was thinking that they were full of shit, but she just said, "If you need a break there are leftovers in the fridge," and then her footsteps receded. Travis shut down the browser.

"I almost got your ass busted," he said conversationally.

Bill shrugged. "I told you. No privacy up here."

"I can, you know," Travis said. He wasn't sure why he was embarrassed but he was. "I'll tell Matty to stop it with that shit."

"Dude, I want to send that website to some people. I'm going to _traumatize_ them," Bill informed him, wide-eyed. "I know this kid back in Chicago, he'll never be the same."

"You got a sick mind," Travis said, but he pulled the browser back up and started writing to Matt, _I was using these eyes, motherfucker._

*****

For some reason it got easier to talk to Bill. When he got tired of trying to be interested in the Pythagorean theorem, he could look over at Bill and be as annoying as he wanted without worrying about the consequences. Bill had this way of zooming in on whatever he was doing, and it was a challenge to distract him.

"What do you think would happen if you ever let that shit go for a week?" he asked one time when Bill was scowling down at a picture of salamander anatomy. "Just relaxed and did what you wanted for a while?"

"This is the only reason I ever get to do what I want," Bill said.

"Make sense, dude."

"I made a deal with my mom. If I keep my grades up and don't fail any tests, I can skip out on curfew and go to open mics and stay out on the weekends. I can handle that."

"The highlight of your life's an open mic?"

"Not the _highlight_. A bright spot."

"Huh," Travis said. "I didn't think there were any places to do that around here."

"There aren't," Bill said dryly. He erased something in his notebook and wrote something else down. "The closest place is an hour away. I need to get a ride from my mom every time I want to get out there."

"Guess you better keep the grades up then."

"I guess."

"So what do you do?"

Bill shrugged. "I don't know. Play my guitar. Sing something. Like that."

"Sing what?"

Bill looked up at him, chewing on his bottom lip. "Stuff."

"Are you thinking I'm going to be an asshole about it if you tell me?"

"No," Bill said, too quickly.

Travis said, "It's not gonna be good for me if I act like an asshole. Who am I going to study with?"

Bill frowned at him. "It's just some stuff I wrote."

"Can I see it?"

"I kind of have to get this finished, Travie…"

"I'll shut the fuck up if you let me see it."

Bill didn't say anything. He started to bite his nails.

"I'm curious," Travis said.

"Two seconds," Bill said. He shoved himself off the bed and started going through his desk. Travis had a feeling that if he smiled or laughed anytime in the next few minutes, Bill was going to get spooked and bolt, so he tried to look very serious.

Bill handed him some worn notebook paper. He folded himself up on the bed and watched Travis read, chewing on his nails and not going anywhere near his homework.

Bill wrote in this sort of ungainly lefty scrawl, with a lot of heavy cross-out marks. There were a lot of lines about being left behind and hearts left bleeding in the dirt. Travis said, "A lot of these are kind of sad."

Bill checked him over, looking for any signs of mockery. "It's easier to write when I'm sad," he said finally. "If I'm happy, I'd rather just enjoy it than write about it, you know?"

"Yeah," Travis said. He wasn't sure what to say, what he should say. He wondered if he should bring up the notebooks full of unfinished phrases he'd been carrying around with him. He liked words, liked the way they slipped and slid together, but he'd always thought more in terms of color and image and sitting down to write didn't come naturally to him. He decided against saying any of that.

"Maybe this is about a girl?" he said to Bill. "Your girlfriend?"

"Ex," Bill said. "But not really. I'm more interested in, you know, the idea of love more than the real thing, you know?"

"Yeah," Travis said, and then he thought about it for a second. "No, wait, no, I don't know. What do you mean, the _idea_ of love?"

"Well, uh," Bill said. Travis had the thought that he didn't know himself. "Uh, you know. The idea of it. Making mix CDs for somebody and walking them home and holding hands and stuff. Like that."

"Yeah, you got really weird ideas," Travis said, but smiled. He passed back the papers. "Thanks for letting me see these."

Bill shrugged. "Thanks for not being an asshole about them."

"I'm a gentleman," Travis drawled.

"Oh, _sure_ ," Bill said. He opened up his desk drawer.

"Hey," Travis said. "Do you get to drink when you go perform? Does that come with it?"

"I go to _coffee_ shops mostly. I can't exactly get wasted there…Trav, I really need to get this done, it's due tomorrow."

"Okay," Travis said, and went back to his math assignment.

*****

He had a History test coming up, a big one, one that he couldn't half-ass his way through, and if he didn't want to risk going to summer school he had to throw himself on Bill's mercy and ask for help.

"It's going to be an all-nighter," he told Bill in English. "I just need someone to quiz me until I get it right."

Bill frowned and tilted his head from side to side. "I'll talk to my mom. I think it'll be okay. Should I just come over to your place?"

"After I get off work," Travis said. "I'll give you my address."

Pops was at work when Travis came home, which meant there wasn't going to be a buffer between him and his stepmother. Luckily she was too overjoyed about him bringing someone over to notice him being an asshole, and she'd just got home from work but she immediately started boiling water for pasta and making salad, and Travis retreated into the living room to watch TV.

Bill showed up on the doorstep looking skinny and over-moussed. Travis was all set to start studying but his stepmother insisted they sit down and have dinner first. Travis stared at his spaghetti and tried to ignore her making small talk, while Bill cut his lettuce into miniscule bites and stuttered through his answers. It was a long dinner.

"She seems nice. Your mom," Bill told him when Travis had shut the door to the bedroom and started rooting around for his textbook.

"Stepmom," Travis said. He managed to find his textbook and tossed it on the bed. "She's all right, I guess."

"You sound really believable there."

Travis shrugged. "I _have_ a mom. She might not act like it, but I have a mom. I don't need someone else acting like one. I have to know the whole first section of this fuckin' thing. Hunker down."

Bill looked like he wanted to say something else but he picked up the textbook. Travis slid to the floor and braced his back against the bed, waiting to find out how much he didn't know.

By the time his brain was filled to capacity, it was too late for Bill to get home, so Travis hauled his old sleeping bag out of the closet and set up a place on the floor. He said, "If this shit is multiple choice I'll ace it."

"And if it's not?" Bill slid into the sleeping bag, face poking out at him.

"Pray to God," Travis said. "You comfy? I don't have an air mattress or anything."

"It reminds me of camping," Bill said. "With less mosquitoes. It's like summer all over again."

"Okay," Travis said, and turned the lights out.

He could pinpoint the exact moment Pops got back by when the arguing started. It sounded like the usual Tuesday night fight; a lot of yelling that he couldn't make out, and he wasn't sure who started it this time around. After about ten minutes someone usually started crying and then it usually went quiet.

He wished they would have just given it a rest on the one night he had company. He leaned his head over the side of the bed and tried to figure out if Bill had heard any of that. In the faint light coming in by the window, he saw Bill lying very still in the sleeping bag, barely breathing, whole body radiating _I'm asleep I'm asleep oh man oh man I sure am asleep right now_.

Travis thought, _He's embarrassed because he thinks I'm embarrassed._ He leaned over the side of the bed and said quietly, "Hey, don't let the Honeymooners bother you in there. This is how they get their beauty sleep, you know?"

Bill didn't say anything. Travis rolled back over. After a minute he heard the nylon rustle and Bill said, very softly and with barely a pause for breath in between the words, "When I was a kid, before the divorce, whenever I heard my parents start up I used to run to my room and close the door, and I'd put on my headphones or try to read or…something. It was easy then. To think it wasn't happening. So you don't need to feel like…" He stopped talking and for a minute all Travis could hear was Bill gnawing on a hangnail.

Travis started to say something, but Bill lay back down and Travis somehow got the message that he wasn't about to continue. Travis said, "Can't pick what happens, right?" and lay down himself.

*****

He found out about the tattoo parlor job by accident. He had to pass it on his way to Walmart, and the windows never got any clearer, but then he noticed the Help Wanted sign in the window and his heart jumped up to the top of his throat. It was a shop assistant job, part-time, and all he could think was _Yes, yes, yes._

He didn't tell anyone about it; he didn't want to set himself up. He called to set up an appointment when both Pops and his stepmother were out, talking slow and deep to sound older, just in case. He wasn't that worried about getting caught out; he'd always been tall, and he'd been shaving since he was fourteen, and all he had to do was convince them that he wasn't a snot-nosed punk. The guy on the phone sounded bored as hell and told him to come in for an interview with the manager.

He took in his piddling little résumé and some of his drawings, just in case they needed to know he was serious about this shit. He wore short sleeves to show off the tattoo.

The inside of the parlor was long and narrow, and there were dark blue reclining chairs along the sides, underneath the photographs and drawings on the walls. The guy behind the counter raised his eyebrows at Travis, silently asking _Well?_

"I'm meant to see the manager?" Travis said. "I'm here about the job?"

"Oh," the guy said. There was a red and gold dragon tattoo on the side of his neck. "Joanne's in the back. I'll tell her you're here. She'll be out in a minute."

There were year-old issues of _Inked_ and _Scientific American_ on the table in the waiting area. Travis sat in one of the hard-backed chairs and willed himself not to start creasing his resume between his fingers.

Joanne the manager had black inky spikes etched around her face, which made her look like a depressed sunflower. She gave him the up and down and said, "Travis, right? Come back to the office."

He handed her his résumé when she opened the door to the office, which was right next to what he thought was the supply closet. She said, "Have you worked in a tattoo parlor before?"

Travis shook his head.

"You know this is just for a shop assistant. I need someone to do inventory and run the register and answer phones."

"I've done inventory," Travis said, glad to have what he thought was the right answer. "I'm at the Wal-Mart right now, I've been doin' that –"

"How did you decide to switch from Wal-Mart to tattooing?"

"Uh," Travis said. "I like tattoos, ma'am?"

She looked at him from behind the desk. "You won't have much contact with the actual process if you start this job."

"I know," Travis said. "I wasn't looking for an apprenticeship, or anything, really."

"Is that your artwork?"

"Yeah."

"But you're not looking for an apprenticeship." He thought there might have been a smile, a twitch of carefully painted lips, but he might have imagined it.

"No?"

She looked through the portfolio anyway. She didn't comment on it. "And you have ink yourself."

"It's a spray can," Travis said. "I was thinking that it was my birthday, and –"

"And so you lied about your age?"

"I," Travis said. "I, uh. No?"

"I was about your age when I got my first," she said. "Still. I don't want to hire someone who won't take this seriously. I don't need more aggravation from this town."

"I won't," Travis said. "I mean, I will. Take it serious."

She looked at him. "Come in on Sunday and we'll start the training. May I keep these?" She gestured at the pictures. He nodded. "I'll show them to my wife. She makes the decisions about the artists. I'll see what she says about apprenticeship, if things work out."

He didn't say anything. She might have been expecting him to blink at the word 'wife,' because she gave him a cool _got anything to say about that_ look, but he was feeling a little shell-shocked ( _Sunday? Come in on Sunday?_ ) and didn't say anything.

"Ten in the morning," she said. "Don't be late."

"Yeah," Travis said. "I mean, no. I'll be on time. Early, even."

"I'll give these back then."

"Okay," Travis said. "Thank you."

He got out of there and immediately texted Matt, _i have no idea what the fuck jst happend. i think its good tho_. And then he walked the rest of the way to find his supervisor and tell him that Wal-Mart could suck it.

*****

Pops wasn't exactly overjoyed to hear that he'd quit Wal-Mart to work the phones at a tattoo place, but he knew better than to tell Travis to leave. His stepmother didn't say anything about it, probably because she was just glad that Travis wasn't coming home and kicking the furniture anymore.

It wasn't a perfect job. He was the new kid again, everyone there was older and had a terminal case of _I'm cooler than you_ , and he had a lot of days where having to smile and be polite to customers made his stomach churn, but they played Beastie Boys and Motörhead on the sound system and if he made a mistake they treated him like it was cute rather than earth-shattering, as long as he owned up to it. Joanne's wife, Erika, said she saw potential in his work but he needed a little more discipline before she felt comfortable matching him up with one of the artists. It was something.

Mostly he just liked seeing people come in and then leave with their Tweety Bird and tribal tattoos, frat boys and sorority girls from out of town grinning shakily as they paid, like they'd just had a rite of passage. He liked the soft buzzing of the needles and the calming murmur of the artists' voices as they talked the customer through the pain. It felt natural to him.

It took more than a month before he was officially on the payroll. When the first paycheck came in he was beyond ready to do something ridiculous with it. He'd just suck it up and eat ramen and peanut butter crackers for the next two weeks.

There was some sort of festival going on. He didn't know if it was the state fair or a fall festival or just an excuse to have pony rides, but he woke up on Saturday and the air smelled like popcorn and sawdust and there was a gigantic Ferris wheel just over the horizon.

He started going down there by himself, but then he thought that it maybe looked a little sad, his gigantic gawky self wandering around alone on the midway. He was passing by Bill's house anyway, so he went and rang the bell.

He expected Courtney to answer, since she was usually on doorbell duty, but Bill showed up instead, looking frazzled. He was wearing pointy glasses that made him look like a hip librarian. "Hey," he said, looking surprised. "Travie. What's going on?"

"I just got paid," Travis said. "I'm going to the fair. I think you should come too."

" _That's_ what the music was," Bill said. "I woke up and there was ice cream truck music all over. I thought I was crazy. Where is it?"

Travis flapped a hand vaguely towards the horizon. "I was following the cars, dude. Get your ass out here, I've got rides to go on."

Bill's face brightened. Then he scowled and shook his head. "Can't. I've been put in charge until they get home. I have to clean the fuckin' kitchen. And make sure Court's keeping an eye on the little ones."

" _Clean the kitchen_? That's how you're spending today?" Travis said. "C'mon. Have some fun for once."

"I really shouldn't."

"Little Cinderella," Travis said. "Go bribe Courtney with something. She's a smart kid, she can handle responsibility."

"I will be so dead if they get back tonight and find out I haven't…"

"They won't find out," Travis said. "C'mon. Let's ride the merry-go-round and then puke on a carny."

"That's a lovely way to spend a Saturday," Bill said. "I dunno, Travie. I really shouldn't…"

"If anything happens, you can blame me. Big important freakout. I needed your guidance."

"Yeah?"

"I needed _help_ ," Travis said sweetly. "Only you could help."

"Gimme two seconds," Bill said, and went back inside. It took fifteen minutes, but he came back smiling. "I told Courty she could go through my DVDs and watch whatever the hell she wanted if she kept her mouth shut."

"Little ones okay?"

"They're up in their room playing Candyland. They're happy as clams."

"Great," Travis said. "C'mon, we're burning daylight over here."

The midway was full of families and couples on dates. Bill said, "How'd you talk your parents into letting you work at a tattoo place?"

"Didn't tell them," Travis said. "I wasn't sure I was going to get it."

"Risk-taker," Bill said.

"Not really," Travis said. "Hey, fried dough. You ever had fried dough?"

Bill made a face. "It's all greasy."

"That's what makes it _good_ ," Travis said. "I'm going to get one. You want one?"

"Nah," Bill said, but he stood in line with Travis anyway. While Travis was dumping powdered sugar and cinnamon over his slab of bubbly golden dough, Bill craned his head around at the rides. "Does that say Tunnel of Love or Turkish Love? I can't see from this distance."

"Why would you call a ride Turkish Love?" Travis said. "It sounds like a porn title."

"Or a rich dessert."

"Turkish Love," Travis said. "Really. I think it says Tunnel."

"Those are always lame," Bill said. "They put plastic hearts all over everything and expect people to swoon. It never works."

"How many Tunnels have you been in?"

"Well, _enough_."

"Mr. Smooth Operator," Travis said. "You pull the I'm just going to pretend I'm yawning and put my arm around your shoulder move, too? That how you pull them in?"

"You're such a dick," Bill said. "I was sharing an observation."

"About how many chicks you smooched back in the day."

"That's _your_ sick mind," Bill said. "Taking something innocent and twisting it."

"It's a gift." Travis bit into his dough. He somehow managed to snort powdered sugar up into his sinuses and choked. Bill patted his back.

"It looks pretty rinky-dink, anyway," he said. "Not very romantic."

"You're just saying that because I'm not a girl."

"If you _were_ a girl I'd say the same thing, Trav. Oh, _Knockdown_!" Bill said, enraptured. "Look. It's got milk bottles and everything."

Travis was about to laugh at Bill getting excited about some kid's game, but he was already wandering over to the booth. Above the milk bottles were rows and rows of fluorescent plush animals, elephants and monkeys and lions and bears and dogs. Travis licked the last of the cinnamon off his lips, staring at them.

"You like those? Maybe you could win one," Bill told him, over the guy in the booth yelling, "Three for a dollar, three for a dollar."

"Bad depth perception," Travis said. "I'm too old for that shit, anyway."

"I bet you I can win one."

"Dude –" Travis pulled Bill aside, because he didn't want the guy in the booth to overhear and get the wrong idea. "This shit is all rigged, you know? They stick the things on wire or some shit."

"I was a _pitcher_ back home," Bill said. "I've got great speed."

"They're glued together."

"I bet you they're not," Bill said. He pulled his wallet out and stepped up to the booth. Travis watched him.

Bill wound up his left arm, tiny white ball disappearing in his hand, and pitched, overhand, at top speed. The ball chinked against the milk bottles and they went toppling over. Bill smiled brilliantly at Travis, chipped front tooth and jagged incisors, and Travis' hands felt too big for him suddenly.

"I _told_ you, I told you, I told you," Bill said happily. "Check it out."

"You're lucky someone didn't lose an eye," Travis said.

Bill sighed tolerantly. "What do I get?" he said to the guy in the booth.

"Anything from the top shelf."

"Top shelf, baby," Bill said. He scanned the row of stuffed animals. "I want, uh. I want –" He scowled and then turned to Travis in appeal.

There was a bright blue lion with huge floppy paws that looked like it could barely fit into the allotted space. Travis said, "Take that guy right there. The lion."

"The lion," Bill said. "Okay."

Bill started getting nervous about the time after two hours, and Travis had a four to nine shift to get ready for, so they left before it got dark. When they were almost to Bill's house, Bill turned to him, his arms full of dyed blue plush, and said, "This was a lot of fun. I'm glad you talked me into it."

"Didn't have to do much convincing," Travis said. "It was fun, right?"

"Just have to figure out what to do with this thing now," Bill said, and poked the lion. "Hey, you sure you don't want to take this home with you?"

"Bill, _you_ won it."

"Well, I don't know where to put it. Plus if my stepdad comes home and sees it he'll know something's up. What am I going to say, that it just fell out of the sky?"

"Maybe your sisters will like it."

"They have too many animals already. It'd be, like, a thank you. For coming and being stubborn and making me go out."

"I guess," Travis said. Bill held the lion out. Travis took it; its tail whapped against his leg. "You won me a prize. My _hero_."

"Fuck you, asshole," Bill said, laughing. "I gotta go clean the rest of the kitchen now."

"Ooh, party time," Travis said. "I'll talk to you later. Thanks."

Bill shrugged, mumbled something at the ground and started up his front walk.

*****

The night before his algebra test, the one that he absolutely could not fail and stay out of summer school, Pops was having some people from his main job over, and he didn't want to study there, and Bill's parents were having some sort of get-together at their place, so, when he threw himself on Bill's mercy, Bill suggested that they study at the coffee shop downtown.

"I don't like croissants," Bill told him when he was coming back from the counter, balancing the pastry on top of his coffee.

"You don't like _any_ food," Travis said, and took a bite. "It's no wonder you're so scrawny. What do you live on, air and dust mites?"

"I eat plenty."

"You've never eaten anything when I see you."

"I'm not hungry when I see you."

"Sure." Travis ripped his croissant in half, flicking almond bits off his fingers. "Try this, it's good for you. Lots of sugar."

"Travie –"

"Don't make my chubby ass feel bad. Try it."

"Force-feeding me," Bill said, but took the half. He chewed it like he was crunching up some kind of nasty-tasting vitamin, and it took about five minutes for him to swallow his bite. "There, see?"

"Must've been real hard."

Bill shrugged. "I just don't like eating."

"That's like saying you don't like breathing."

"It's not like that."

"Bill –"

"Look, I'm weird, you know? You know this."

"Yeah, I guess."

"It's just me. What are we going over?"

"I got no idea. Let me find the thing." Travis bent his head and started rummaging through his book bag.

"Wait," Bill said. "Wait, wait, hold on. Don't move."

Travis looked up. "What?"

"Hold still. You've got –" Bill leaned across the table, touching a pale finger to his skin, at the top of his cheek. He pulled away and turned his finger over, showing Travis a fine, dark hair. "Eyelash. You can get wishes on that shit."

"What?"

"You've never made wishes when you lose an eyelash?"

"I wish I could make it through this fuckin' test."

"You're not supposed to _tell_ me, dumbass."

Travis blew the lash off of Bill's fingertip. "You've got a lot of rules for wishing."

*****

"I wouldn't have thought you'd be an Al Green guy," William said, going through Travis' CD collection with his serious face on. Travis was sitting with his back against the foot of the bed. They were meant to be studying but Travis was worn out from work and William wasn't as conscientious about not getting distracted when he was away from home.

"Some of those are my dad's," Travis said. "The really cool stuff is mine."

"I haven't heard of half these guys."

"Because _you_ like whiny white boys crying about their parents not loving them," Travis said pleasantly. "That's the reason right there."

"Some of them are crying about their girlfriends not loving them," William pointed out. "Big difference."

"Oh, okay then."

"You still haven't told me what you want to listen to."

"Motherfucker, I got no idea. Did I say something before?"

"Are you that fried that you don't remember?"

"What do you think?" Travis lolled his head in William's direction.

"Poor creature," William said. "What are they doing to you down there?"

"Breaking me in, I guess."

"And this is still the best job you ever had?"

"Beats washing dishes."

Bill put Smokey Robinson into the CD player and frowned at the buttons. He finally found the Play button. Travis yawned.

Bill picked up the photocopies that he was meant to be reading for History and sat down on the floor next to him. "Just take a nap here, I'll read on my own."

"I'm not tired."

"I feel like I should get you a pillow and a blanky, dude."

"Do I get a juice box, too?"

"Not until afterwards."

"Weak," Travis said. Bill's shoulder was somewhere below his chin. He was looking at the photocopied sheet – something about Suleiman the Magnificent and the Franco-Ottoman Alliance – and chewing on his lower lip. Travis wasn't really reading over his shoulder; he was just sort of _leaning_ there, even though Bill was all pointy bones and it wasn't very comfortable.

"What's the big idea," Bill said without moving.

"I'm interested."

"Sure you are," Bill said. Still, he shifted so his elbow wasn't jabbing into Travis' ribs. He held the sheet in one hand and kept the other draped around Travis' shoulder.

Travis stared at the name Francis I for what seemed a good five minutes. Bill was smoothing his thumb over a crease in Travis' shirt.

"This article sucks balls," Travis said even though he hadn't been reading. Smokey was singing about how his heart went out to play.

"I know," Bill said with a martyred tone. "I don't think I can do much about it."

"Could stop reading it." Travis shifted his weight and his chin landed on Bill's shoulder.

"Great plan. You know, I think your eyelashes are on my face."

"They're not that long," Travis said. He felt Bill's fingers tighten around his shirt.

"What do you want me to do, tell you a bedtime story?" He put the sheet down and pushed the hair off of Travis' forehead.

"I don't think you'd do that," Travis said, looking up.

"I would too," Bill said, and kissed him.

It happened too fast for him to really have an opinion about it. It woke him up pretty damn fast, Bill's mouth hard and nervous against his, and his fingers still holding onto Travis' shirt, and he wasn't all that sure what to do with his own hands himself. They were kind of fluttering around Bill's head seemingly of their own accord.

He was thinking about everyone he'd kissed since he was nine years old, trying to remember what he'd done that everyone liked, but it was hard to focus. He managed to hold onto Bill's shoulder with one hand, delicately, and his other hand had somehow managed to get squashed flat against Bill's chest. He could feel Bill's heart going _thudda thudda thudda_ behind his ribs, and he thought, _Why's he scared, he's the one doing the kissing_.

He curled his fingers around Bill's shirt and pulled him forward, until they were both flat on the floor next to Bill's backpack; he could feel the jagged line of Bill's teeth brushing against the tip of his tongue. Bill pressed against him, hipbones sharp through his too-tight jeans, rubbing against him, and it took barely half a second before Travis was panting into his mouth, trying and failing not to come.

Bill didn't last much longer. He pulled his mouth off of Travis' and lay on top of his chest, breathing heavily. "Dude," Travis said faintly, "I know you're skinny and all, but I've seriously got no air in my body now."

"Sorry," Bill said, and slid off. He lay with his head on Travis' shoulder, playing with the belt loops in Travis' jeans, and Travis was only just realizing that he liked it when he heard Pops knocking on the door, asking if they could turn the music down, and they both nearly pissed themselves.

"Sorry, sorry!" Travis said, lunging for the stereo and turning Smokey off entirely. "Won't happen again!" He prayed really hard that Pops wouldn't take it upon himself to come in, because the bedroom seriously reeked of come and he didn't want to have that conversation. Luckily Pops just said thanks and moved off. Travis sighed.

Bill pushed himself off the floor. "I think — I better go."

"Yeah," Travis said. "Not much studying done, huh?"

Bill smiled. "No, not really." He fiddled with his book bag for a second and then he leaned in very fast and roughly kissed Travis goodbye. He left before Travis could say anything.

Of course, when he was gone then Travis had plenty of time to think about what the hell had just happened. It was kind of a surprise that he wasn't more freaked out. The reflection in the mirror above the dresser had swollen lips and flushed cheeks, but otherwise didn't look any different, and he didn't feel much different, considering. He thought he could have maybe done a better job.of things, but he wasn't that good with being surprised, and if he was going to make out with someone he'd have preferred a different setting, but otherwise he still felt like Travis.

It was sort of scary to think that he wanted to try the whole thing again, but he thought he could manage it. It was weird that he wanted to try the whole thing again with Bill Beckett, scrawny Bill Beckett with the bad skin and worse hair, but he supposed he did.

Weird that Bill had kissed him first.

He went for his phone. He texted Matt, _i think i just made out with a guy_ , and left it at that, because he didn't really want to talk about coming all over himself. Some things were personal. He hoped Matt was awake.

Ten minutes later Matt texted him, _how was it?_

_pretty awesome_

_thats a good deal right there_

*****

William texted him, _we should talk, come over when you can_. He got the message at the end of his shift, and it was just kind of a minor detour from the parlor to Bill's house.

Bill was sitting on the bed when Travis got there, drumming on his knees. His eyes were bruised with exhaustion and his skin looked gray. Travis said, "What's the matter, you sick?"

Bill shook his head. "I'm okay. I was thinking, about the other day –"

"Hey, I wasn't that bad."

"I just think we maybe shouldn't do that again."

Travis hadn't even put his messenger bag down. He stood with the strap in his hand.

"I don't have many guy friends," Bill said. "I mean, I just don't think we need to complicate everything right now."

Travis was thinking that the bag was heavy as hell. The strap was digging into his fingers. He could probably just drop it on the floor, but he didn't.

"I mean, it was just one time, right?" Bill said. "It's easy to just forget about."

"You kissed me," Travis said. The effort of talking made him furious, and he said, "You kissed _me_ , fuckface."

"I didn't mean that –"

Travis was so fucking stupid. He was so goddamned _stupid_ , thinking this would mean something, that this asshole spoiled brat would actually let him in, for falling in love accidentally. "You don't get to set the fucking terms here," he said. "You don't _get_ to say, 'oh my bad,' and pretend nothing happened. You don't get to play around."

"I wasn't!"

"You like _girls_ , right?" Travis said. "You just don't want to think about sticking your tongue down my throat because I'm not a girl. You fuckin' came in three fuckin' seconds, you know that?"

"Travie –"

"Fuck you."

" _Listen_ ," Bill said. His face was beginning to get red. "I don't have many guy friends, you know?"

"You don't have _any_ friends," Travis said.

"Fuck you, that's not fair."

"You tell me about what's not fair. Go ahead, tell me." Travis' throat hurt. "Twice. You kissed me twice. What the fuck?"

"I wasn't thinking about what I was doing," Bill said. "You're making this a _huge_ deal, and it doesn't need to be."

"It _is_ a huge deal."

"Goddamnit, would you stop yelling for two seconds and –"

"It hurts when they call you a fag, right, William?" Travis said. "Doesn't it fuckin' get under your skin? Knowing they can fuckin' see right through you?"

"Fuck you," Bill said, very softly. "Fuck you."

"I'm sure you'd love to," Travis said. "But you want to forget this ever happened. Fine with me. Let's forget the whole thing ever happened. We never fuckin' met, are you happy now?"

Bill didn't say anything.

"Don't fuckin' talk to me anymore," Travis said, and turned around.

*****

He didn't care. He didn't care that he was stuck here until he either graduated or got kicked out. He didn't care about whatever names the assholes wanted to throw at him in the school hallways, or whatever bullshit busywork he was meant to do. They kept calling him into Guidance and waving summer school over his head and he just didn't give a fuck.

His desk in English was still across from Bill's. At first it'd been easy to just stare straight ahead and ignore him, except then it got harder all of a sudden, maybe because he had some time to think about what he'd said to Bill. He always talked a lot of shit when he got upset, said stuff he didn't really mean but which made him feel better in the moment, and he might have, just maybe, said some things he regretted. There wasn't anything he could do about it now, though.

It didn't help that he knew Bill had started sending him these pleading looks from across the aisle, _please talk to me_ looks, but he wasn't about to cave. He was going to do what Bill had wanted in the first place.

Pops was pissed at him for whatever reason, and his stepmother was getting on his nerves more than usual. He was just trying to get through the days he had left, and they kept _bothering_ him.

He got home from work and slammed the front door, just trying to get to his room and put on some music and mind his own business, except his stepmother was home and she told him to quit making a racket.

And he said, "Fuck you, just shut the fuck up for once, will you?" and then the fight started. He even pulled out the _you're not my mother_ bit, and her face turned purple and then she pulled the _just wait until your father gets home_ bit. Travis said, "I'm not fuckin' _going_ to wait!" and turned around and walked out of the house, making sure to slam the door.

He was going back to Geneva. He'd hitchhike back or something, go hide in Matt's room until he found a job. Then he'd get an apartment and pay his own bills and nobody could touch him. He'd never talk to anybody ever again.

He didn't know how to get there.

He started walking in the direction that he thought the highway was, except he just started getting deeper and deeper into the suburbs and finally he wound up in some cul-de-sac staring at the houses, and he had to turn around. It was getting dark, but he figured he could just walk in the opposite direction and he'd wind up somewhere else.

The jacket he was wearing was sort of falling apart and he was starting to shiver. All he could see was the outline of trees and houses.

And then he realized that he was walking by Bill's house, and before he could turn around, he saw Bill coming out the front door, dragging a couple of garbage bags out to the cans. Travis meant to immediately turn and walk in the other direction, but Bill spotted him.

"Travie?" He sounded so goddamned hopeful that Travis wanted to punch him in the face.

"Yeah?" Travis said. "Oh, sorry, thought you were someone I knew."

Bill's face hardened. He put the bags into the garbage cans. "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing," Travis said. "Look, I'd love to chat, but I got places to go."

"Yeah, where?" Bill said. "You just show up by my house at ten at night for the hell of it?"

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm just passing by."

"Your nose is running," Bill said.

Travis' face was completely numb. He swiped his cuff under his nose and it came away damp. _Gross_. "Yeah, well."

"Travis, what the fuck. It's freezing out here, you're going to get sick," Bill said.

"Who gives a shit?" Travis said. "Listen, this has been real fun and all –"

"Look, just fuckin' come inside for a minute," Bill said. "It's a hell of a lot warmer."

"You just let people into your house when you feel like it? Your mommy and daddy won't be happy about that."

"Look, you son of a bitch," Bill said. "I don't give a rat's ass what you think about me, but if you think I'm going to let you freeze to death out here, then you're a goddamn moron. Now _get your ass inside_."

Bill Beckett trying to be tough was a pretty sorry sight. But his teeth were chattering and his nose was running and it wasn't like he would be doing it because Bill had _asked_ him, just because he wanted to, so he said, "Fine," and stomped up the front walk.

The rush of warm air when he got inside the house made him sneeze, and he heard Bill's mom say, "Billy?"

Bill said to him, "Look, just go up to my room, whatever," and then he went into the living room, saying, "It's Travis, Mom."

Travis went into Bill's room. It still looked the same as the last time, maybe a little messier, and he didn't want to sit on the bed but his legs were tired and aching, so he just slumped down on the floor, leaning against it.

He'd left the door open; Bill's dog poked his head around it and then wandered in, wagging his tail. He plunked himself down with his head in Travis' lap and started licking his hand. "What you want, dog," Travis said.

The dog got up when Bill came in, putting his paws on Bill's knees. Bill patted his head and then shooed him out the door. "So what happened?" he said.

"Nothing," Travis said sulkily. "My stepmother was on my case again. I figured now was the best time to head out. I'm going home."

"You're just going to Geneva like this? Dude –"

"Shut up," Travis said. "I can go where I want."

"Right," Bill said. "You can go anywhere."

"Fuck you, you know?" Travis said. "I don't need your fuckin' opinion. I'm getting out. Nothing ever fuckin' goes right for me here, and I don't care, because the only good thing about this shithole town is _you_ , and –" He had a bunch of things left to say, but then he burst into tears and lost them.

Bill looked stunned. Travis pressed his head into the top of his knees and shut his eyes.

"Travis. Travie. C'mon, don't do that. Trav, I've got this _thing_ , I see people cry and I cry. Don't do that to me. Hey, it's all right." Bill's hands were touching his. Travis jerked away.

"Travie. Your dad's going to be worried about you. C'mon, just let me call your house, let them know you're here. Two seconds."

And it made things worse, because he knew Bill was right, that Pops would freak and spend time that he didn't have to spare driving around town looking for his stupid ass, and he really should have planned this better. He still said, "No. I don't want to go back there."

"I'll say I asked you to stay. As a favor to me, all right?"

"I don't want to talk," Travis said. His breath was hitching.

"You won't have to. I'll do all the talking."

Travis nodded. Bill grabbed his phone and went out in the hall. Travis listened to him dialing. He thought Bill was talking to Pops, stuttering through his explanations, saying that Travis was here, he was fine, Bill thought it'd be better if he spent the night, really, he was just upset and Bill didn't mind. Travis could hear him struggling to get the words out.

Travis pressed his eyes against his knees and tried to calm down. He heard Bill hanging up in the hall.

"I think he's okay. Sort of," Bill said. "Your stepmom's upset too. He was just running out to go look for you when I called. Trav." He put a hand tentatively on Travis' shoulder. "Travie. Please stop crying. Look, I'll do a little dance or something, would that help?"

"No," Travis said, but he picked his head up and scrubbed at his face. Bill was frowning worriedly at him, eyes a little too bright, still stroking his shoulder. Travis sniffed.

"I missed you so much," Bill said. "I was – I was so goddamn stupid, Travie. I left that night, and I started thinking, and I — I've fucked up every time I tried to be with someone. Badly. I am just absolutely _horrible_ at dating, or, whatever. I thought that – I thought I was pretty good at being your friend, though. I thought you'd be okay with that."

"Well, you're pretty stupid, then," Travis said shakily.

"Yeah. Pretty stupid." Bill handed him a Kleenex. Travis blew his nose. "I'm sorry. I fucked up, I'm sorry. I should have been honest."

"I said some pretty shitty things, too, I guess," Travis said. "I don't really think –"

"Dude. I don't actually have any friends here. And I don't like getting called a fag."

"I still didn't really mean it."

"Can we maybe forget I acted like an asshole? I just – if you can believe it, I just didn't want you to stop liking me."

"You're a dumbass."

"Yeah." Bill stroked his hair. "C'mon. You can sleep in my bed and I'll burn you some pancakes in the morning."

"That okay with your mom?"

"It's fine."

He wound up sleeping in his drawers and one of Bill's old baseball jerseys. Bill started off in a sleeping bag on the floor but he migrated to the bed sometime in the middle of the night. Travis woke up with his head on Bill's chest.

*****

Travis was deeply grounded when he got home, but he couldn't be too pissed about it, considering. He apologized to his stepmother, staring at his feet and waiting to be rejected, but she took it pretty well. He had a whole bunch of makeup assignments to do, but it was an excuse to go study with Bill. Matt wrote him that he was going to talk to his mom about Travis spending the Christmas holidays with him. Things weren't perfect but they were better.

Bill showed up at the parlor just before his shift ended, looking interestedly at the portraits on the walls. Travis was finishing up a sale, advising the guy to clean his new oozing Harley logo well, and didn't notice Bill at first. Then he looked up, blinked and said, "Hey."

"Hey," Bill said. "I thought you'd like some company going home?"

He had to have gone half an hour out of his way. Travis said, "Yeah, yeah, let me just finish here."

The artists were smirking at him when he went to get his coat and murmuring amongst themselves. Travis sighed and told them all to grow up, in his head.

"I could get a tattoo," Bill told him while they were walking back. "Just need to figure out the right one."

"Just don't get fuckin' Big Bird or some shit."

"I just may."

"Lame." Travis put an arm around his shoulders.

Bill just smiled. "Hey, I made you something."

"What?"

Bill took a square out of his pocket. Travis turned the jewel case over, looking at his name written across the cover in an ungainly lefty scrawl. He opened it up, looking at the CD, the list of song titles on the inside cover.

"This is for me?"

"You might not like it," Bill said. "I, uh. I tried to pick songs that reminded me of you."

Travis touched the CD. Bill started to bite his nails. Travis said, "Yeah? Which ones?"

Bill said quietly, "I don't know. All of them."


End file.
